The Paris Library(76)

Jewish people could no longer teach, enter parks, or even cross the Champs-élysées. They couldn’t use phone booths. They had to sit in the last car of the metro. Continuing in my direction, the brunette raised her chin, but her mouth quivered. I’d heard about the yellow stars, but this was the first one I’d seen. I didn’t know how to react. Should I smile kindly to let the woman know that not everyone agreed with this bizarre identification? Should I stare straight ahead as usual, to let her know that nothing had changed? By not looking at the woman, I would prove that I viewed her just like any other. As we crossed paths, I averted my eyes.

Jewish people were not just banned, they now wore targets. And I’d complained to Professor Cohen about my insignificant problems.



* * *




ALL MORNING, MARGARET and I repaired worn books. We could no longer order new ones, so each was precious. Tired and hungry, I pasted the glue over the binding, back and forth, back and forth, slowly, then slower still, like a record player winding down. She’d stopped working a while ago. The right corner of her mouth turned up in a smile. I called her name but she didn’t answer.

“Margaret?” I nudged her knee.

“Sorry, I was lost in thought.”

“Occupational hazard,” I said.

She laughed. The light in her eyes spoke of love. Had she and her husband made up?

“Is Lawrence home?”

She gaped at me, aghast. “Heavens, no! What made you think that?”

“You seem happy.” She was always beautiful, but her expression had changed these past weeks, become brighter. It was as if the morning fog had given way to the afternoon sun, the change so gradual that I hadn’t seen it until now.

Haltingly, almost as if she were surprised, she said, “I suppose I am.”

“Any special reason?”

“I’m rereading The Priory, aloud this time.”

“Aloud?”

“To someone who couldn’t otherwise.”

Before I could find out more, our attention was taken by the sound of soldiers’ boots. The Bibliotheksschutz and two lackeys had come to call. Subscribers stiffened. Parisians were used to Soldaten in the street, but not in our Library. It had been several months since Dr. Fuchs’s last visit, and much had changed: Miss Reeder had left, and Germany was now at war with America. Was that why he was here?

Straightening his gold-rimmed glasses, Dr. Fuchs asked to see the directress, so I escorted the men to Clara de Chambrun’s office. Bitsi trailed cautiously.

Used to officers in full Nazi regalia, the Countess remained blasé when he was announced. The same could not be said of the Bibliotheksschutz. His eyes bulged at the sight of a stranger at Miss Reeder’s desk. He glanced around the office, then scowled at me as if I’d sequestered the Directress inside the massive safe.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

“Please meet the Countess Clara de Chambrun, who directs the Library,” I said.

“Where is Miss Reeder?” He sounded worried.

“She’s gone home,” the Countess replied.

“I guaranteed that she would be under my protection here. Why did she leave?”

“Doubtless, she considered an order to return more imperative than your guarantee.”

Joining Bitsi in the corridor, I asked, “Why is he mad?”

“The Directress went away without saying goodbye. He’s not mad, he’s hurt.”

Ah. I couldn’t help but like him for loving Miss Reeder.

He interrogated the Countess about her qualifications, the value of the collection, and the Library’s insurance policy. Satisfied, he laid out the rules, from no raises for staff to no selling off books. “I gave my word that this Library should be maintained,” he said. “Should the military authority interfere in any way, you’ll find my number here and in Berlin in Miss Reeder’s drawer. Call in case of trouble.”


KRIEGSGEFANGENENPOST


30 November 1942

Dear Odile,

Sorry I haven’t written—no paper to be had. Many of us have ailments. My wound still gives me trouble. The guards aren’t trying to kill us, but they’re not trying to keep us alive, either. One said they don’t have medicine for themselves.

My bunkmate Marcel is at it again. After the cow-milking fiasco, he drove the old frau’s tractor into a ditch. He’s as banged up as the tractor—when it tipped over, his arm was crushed underneath. The Kommandant offered to replace him, but the frau didn’t want any more French help.

Another fellow works for a young widow who has the body of Mae West and the face of an (Aryan) angel. They’ve grown close, and when he talks about staying here after the war, we feel sorry for him.

She slipped him a radio in thanks for bringing in the harvest. Some of the Germans are as virulent as Hitler, but others are anti-Nazi and listen to the BBC. It’s been hard to be cut off from you, from the entire world. We’re thrilled to have daily news though we don’t always have daily bread.

I live for your letters and the hope of seeing you. I’m fortunate to have a caring family. Many never hear from home. If you’re able to send Marcel Danez a packet of sweets, I know he’d be pleased.

Love,

Rémy